


Physicality

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike would never dream of letting Angel know it, but he's really struggling with this whole ghost thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physicality

Humans were physical creatures. They didn't just have bodies - they _were_ their bodies, their whole existence wrapped up in the world as defined by their senses. Sight and sound and smell and touch, these things grounded them, tethered and pleasured and tormented them all at once, reminding them constantly that they were alive. And vampires were no different. If anything, they were even more bound to it than humans, thanks to their enhanced senses.

But that made sense; after all, vampires had once been human, too.

He'd never really thought much about it when he was undead. There had been too many other things to concern himself with once Drusilla had opened up that whole new world to him. Sires and sex and Slayers, and above all else, blood, sliding hot and sweet and sticky down his throat in a never-ending red river of bliss. He'd spent a hundred years drowning in debauchery, giving himself entirely to his senses without ever really considering what that meant.

And then he'd died. Real, forever death, burning to save the world, all for the love of a girl.

But it hadn't stuck. The sodding amulet had yanked him right back into the world without so much as a by your leave, but it had taken one thing from him. One very important thing. His body.

He was a fucking ghost, drifting aimlessly through the halls of Wolfram & Hart, unable to touch anything, unable to make any sort of a dent in the world or leave any reminder of his presence behind. He couldn't hit anyone when they annoyed him, couldn't throw things or kick trash cans across the room, couldn't lose himself in a woman's hot, slick flesh or a man's deep growls and hard hands. He was insubstantial, ephemeral, a mere wisp of a thought in the world that was all about solidity and physicality and flesh.

And nobody seemed to notice. Oh, sure, they all knew he was a ghost, but it was a punchline for them. Angel in particular delighted in reminding him of his condition, calling him Casper and the Almost Invisible Man, taunting him with his inability to affect anything. Like he knew anything about actually living. He had the world at his feet - a luxury penthouse with everything he could ask for, an empire of evil minions just panting to do his bidding, and what did he do with it? Shut himself away in the dark to live the cold, loveless, lifeless existence of a monk, just like he had ever since he'd gotten his soul.

It wasn't fair. He'd had everything - Drusilla and Buffy and the respect of demons everywhere, and a physical body, too, and he was wasting it, throwing it all away in the name of some meaningless quest for redemption. Spike wanted to scream at him, point out that he wouldn't know what to do with a fucking human life even if he had it, but he knew his voice would fall on deaf ears. Just like his hands passed right through anything he reached for, from paper to his sleeping sire's body.


End file.
